


Embers Gleaming in Bone

by SenjuMizusaya



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Dubious Morality, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, Female Jon Snow, Fluff, Gen, Genderswap, Implied Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Light Angst, M/M, Marriage, No White Walkers, Plot and Plotting, Possessive Behavior, Progressively Dark, R Plus L Equals J, Scheming, Smut, Westeros, Westerosi Politics, but there is politicking and Iron Throne enough to make up for it, don't expect much love like that at all, it's westeros so don't expect romance like sansa's songs, so much plot, that is warning enough
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-03-28 16:48:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13908189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenjuMizusaya/pseuds/SenjuMizusaya
Summary: Ned Stark had arrived back at Winterfell with a victory to his name and an illegitimate daughter in his arms. Lyarra Snow, the bastard child, the only ink stain on Lord Stark's otherwise crisp page.Only, she's not.(Snow is her name, but the Blood of Fire burns in her veins, because underneath the skin of Stark, there is Targaryen.)





	1. A Sky of Clouds

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Game of Thrones, or anything related to it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm officially genderbender trash by now, but that's okay.  
> Three notes; the first would be that if I were to add all the minor/background relationships, it'd probably never end^^ So, expect some canon ships, and maybe some more? There might be some instances where one could argue there is a slight fem!Jon x someone-not-in-the-relationships, though it wouldn't be enough to put it in the relationship category. I haven't decided the story in that much detail yet (which I will, eventually).  
> Secondly, I'd like to note that people see what they want to see, or at least what they're expecting. For example, very early into the chapter Catelyn finds Valyrian features she draws from Ashara Dayne and Stark features she could compare to Ned; that is because I find it v e r y hard to believe anybody would casually expect Rhaegar's and Lysanna's daughter-in-secret to be hidden by Ned Stark in Winterfell under the guise of a bastard. (Lyarra doesn't expect that, either, of course.)  
> Lastly, I had imagined writing Jon Snow would be rather easy, if only because he had seemed to when reading his chapters in the books. I was wrong, looking back on it; all I can really focus on is his love for family, moral compass, sense of honor and duty, not to mention maturity and some amount of perception since as a bastard, he'd have to learn quickly. Long story short; I have no idea how to write him accurately, which I realized a bit too late, so...
> 
> Mainly a Willas/Lyarra fanfiction, at least working towards it (we all know how much happens in ASOIAF), but with a fair share of Jaime as well in the first third. Follows the books but uses the series when I feel like it. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy^^  
> (or don't enjoy)

It was a shell, thick and impenetrable at first sight, Stark in nature in all its northern glory. Dark hair and an almost sickly pale complexion, a coloring of burnt wood, with strength in her undoubtedly feminine shoulders and width of the hips, a nipped waist in comparison. The Winterfell looks had cloaked themselves around her. 

There were tears in the cloak, cracks in the Stark appearance.

The eyes were the first inconsistency, the most noticeable tarnish of the cloak; a deep purple, dark enough to almost be black in the colder, dimmer lights. Then there was the dainty shape of her chin, more arched eyebrows, subtle cheekbones, bow-shaped lips and almost delicately straight nose. The Valyrian features, vague as they may have been, were like the poking end of a loose thread; once you started prodding, only more of it was revealed until the single thread seemed to have consumed the cloak, shredding and uncovering in its path. If left alone, if not glanced at and focused on, however, the cloak remained without any major faults. 

But the looks of Ashara Dayne were intertwined with Ned Stark's, and it made Catelyn Stark silently seethe. 

Lyarra wasn't oblivious. She had never been. 

For as long as she had roamed the halls of Winterfell, Lady Stark's wary, mutely aggressive shadow had clung to her heels with distrust and dislike sewed to her upbringing. She was already four-and-ten, thus long used to it, but it would still leave a sour taste on the back of her tongue. Septa Mordane, too, had been been distasteful in her behavior for as long as she remembered. The creases around the thin lips deepen, as if someone had carved into wax, but her job remained her job no matter the student. Lyarra wasn't talentless with the needle and thread, even if Sansa Stark was a league of her own when it came to the finer arts of brocades and embroideries, and an aptitude for the harp was another skill in her arsenal, but when it came to her lessons of womanly arts it would always be history she found as her element. Surrounded by books, scrolls; the subtle smell of leather binders, dry parchment, the sound of softly turned pages was a solace. Books had an ability to creep under her skin, make her forget the world at the same time as they made her understand it- or rather, it was the texts within the books that she'd trace with worshiping fingertips when reading, consumed like alcohol, drowned in as if it were fine silks and blessed water.

That did not mean she found a guilty exhilaration, or at least relief, in sneaking out during the shyest hours of the morning to attempt practice with the sword. Under the rays of daylight, bleak as they may have been at times, spars or drills were always met with disapproval. It was one thing to train a fundamental ability to defend oneself, which Eddard Stark had no qualms against, but it was unfit for a lady to train like a man to her heart's content, restricting it to a two hours a week schedule. Lady Stark herself had said so into her face, distant like an icy wind but with House Stark's well-being in mind. It wouldn't do Lyarra Snow's image any good, even if it had been a poor one to begin with, what with being a bastard daughter born of lust and war. Her own name, and consequently the Stark name, needn't be slandered. 

It was to Arya Stark, youngest daughter and the only trueborn to have inherited the Stark features in addition to coloring, Lyarra was woken after a quick rap to the door followed by the dark-haired young girl bounding inside with a skip to her step. For Winterfell's downside in the form of a harsh climate and distant location to the Red Keep, nobody could claim they hadn't been blessed with many children. The longer slant of her face, stubborn set of the chin, dark eyes were all Stark in nature, more so than the older half-sister, though she had yet to grow into those features and do them good. Lyarra herself had been a bit of an ugly duckling until she flowered and had a growth spurt two years ago, she'd know, but a small part of her wished Arya wouldn't bleed any time soon, preferably not for a good five years.

"They'll be here soon!" She sung out with a boyish grin, abruptly jumping atop Lyarra's bent legs and making said girl sit up straight with an expression of forced wakefulness, drooping into one of blinked-away sleep like syrup drizzled over pale, snowy like her name, facial features. "Mother says you should be ready and look presentable, too. But that's a bit ridiculous, you always look presentable." 

Sansa would disagree, Lyarra knew; she looked presentable at table and during her lessons in the fairer arts -music, poetry, dancing and etiquette, among many others- but her appearance when coming back from a practice with the sword was at the other end of the spectrum, with dirt clinging to both skin and her unsightly men's clothes as well as a sheen of sweat catching the light upon flushed cheeks. 

A long-since mediator, as Sansa and Arya would find little to agree on in these situations, not to mention Robb's stubbornness, she said; "Then I'd better get ready." 

Gently shooing Arya off the softness of her fur-covered blanket, much like lifting a happy dog away, Lyarra rolled her shoulders and stretched lithely muscled arms high above her head, relief tingling her veins at the satisfying crack. "When will they be arriving?" 

"Father says they were sighted about a three hours' ride away," answered the nicknamed Underfoot with no small amount of pride of having overheard a conversation, lips stretching to flash teeth. The older sister couldn't help but to answer the ice-thawing grin with a smile of her own.  

"I'll be down soon," the Snow promised with an assuring tilt to her lips, still fighting the lingering swaths of sleep hazing in her mind. She wondered what would be more appropriate to wear, the dress of deep gray with delicate stitches of silver at the square neckline that reached down like tendrils of mist to the narrowing of the waist, or the one of the same deep green as the thriving pines and firs outside the castle grounds.

There was also a knitting churn twisting her stomach, ugly with something bitter, as if meeting royalty would entail wandering uphill for hours. 

"You better," came the reply, ringing with laughter, though Arya didn't leave just yet, opting to throw open the heavy doors of the ironwood wardrobe pushed against the stone wall next to the shuttered window, hiding the first hairline cracks of dawn breaking at the ancient horizon above the snowy treetops and melancholy hills. Her nose scrunched up, a sniff breaking to the surface. "Dresses are stupid, especially the ones Mother wants me to wear. Yours are even worse!"

"They are in the way sometimes," Lyarra humored her with the ease come from being half in her dreams, yet to fully wake. Next to her, precariously piled on her sturdily carved nightstand, were books she had let herself devour in the later hours the last few nights, with two remains of wax candles burnt low to testimony. She'd need to apply some form of cosmetics to cover the ugly bruises beneath the dark amethysts of her eyes betraying little sleep, embarrassingly obvious against the milky hue of her skin. "Which dress do you think would be best?" 

"I'm not Sansa," answered Arya swiftly, shoulders squaring with sibling indignation. Though Lyarra and her only redheaded sister had grown distant over the years, it was only when it came to the most ladylike necessities the remained close. It was a pity, she thought, because Sansa was a great companion, used to be at the very least. On the other hand, it also meant she could share her love for exploring, fighting and the rougher means of spending times with Arya, and Arya alone. 

"Of course not," agreed the bastard, and the coldness of the gray floor met her feet as she sat up straight on the edge of her bed. Then, more careful, words tiptoeing and softer, lacking the rough edge she usually spoke with when alone with Arya, a gentle reminder of the future; "It doesn't hurt to show at least a little interest in appearances when meeting the King for the first time." 

The expression on the young spitfire's face was one begging to differ, only would Arya never beg. "I won't marry! Not ever, and definitely not to anybody south of Neck!" 

It wasn't what Lyarra had hinted at, necessarily, but there had not been anything specific she had tried to achieve, either. Amethysts twinkled. "I'm aware, and that's quite fine." 

But then Arya smiled again, a look in her dark granite eyes that promised she'd pull something ridiculous from her sleeve, say something she wasn't supposed to say and drag Lyarra with her. "Can we explore the crypts after they've arrived? You always find odd things hidden in the corners!" 

It was true, though perhaps not always good. What Lyarra Snow would find ranged from meaningless trinkets to Theon Greyjoy enjoying a maid in forgotten alcoves, old letters meant to have been burned generations ago and necklaces long-since lost to the darkness lurking underneath cupboards in the guest rooms. It was no small feat to find Catelyn Stark's left earring from her youth among the assortment of slippers at the foot of Rickon's bed.

"As long as we don't get into trouble," uttered the young woman, the words familiar as they slipped from her tongue. As long as they didn't get caught, didn't upset anybody by missing dinner or get in someone's way, the exploration of Winterfell was free play in the palms of their hands.

Arya's grin was wide and worth it.  

.

The King was, surprisingly unsurprising, not at all like Kings from the fairy tales Lyarra and Sansa had read in turn as young girls yet to learn how exactly the world had been puzzled together. His dark hair wasn't as thick as it had once been, and while he was tall, he was also carrying a great girth to match, rotunding and bringing a red tint to his softened face. It was hard to match this man, round as a barrel atop his ashen steed, to the great hero from her Father's stories. When Lyarra glanced at Ned, at the furrow deepening between his brows, the discerning glint in his dark steel eyes, she imagined he was struggling to place the large man, too. 

The King had also taken half of Kings Landing with him, it seemed.

Hopeful young squires and straight-backed proud knights atop well-bred horses, a horde of servants who had been chosen to accompany this journey, administrative posts such as scribes and clerks also drafted into the entourage, common guards as among higher ranked. Many faces -or symbols, at least- were familiar from books, tales and songs, but an even greater amount was unknown, and would likely remain unknown for eternity, such as the maids and stable boys and all others who had not brought glory to an emblem. Names and titles were but an old, crusted wound marring her heart, but the skin around it still stretched just a tad. 

Not enough to dampen her mood, finally risen at the prospect of seeing faces from Sansa's songs. Songs would remain songs, and Lyarra was no believer when it came to stories traveling across the country by mouth, much less the poetized ones, but it was still a source of comparison like no other.

Next to the clumsily grand carriage not fitting through the sturdy gates of Winterfell, she was certain Ser Jaime Lannister was riding, if the white cloak swept _just so_ to reveal gleaming armor a shade lighter than the charming locks of gold framing a handsome face were anything to go by. Not far away, on a horse despite everything, perched upon a queer saddle, was Tyrion Lannister, as much a dwarf with a large forehead accentuated by heavy brows as the rumors, limbs not quite proportionate to the golden-topped head. The Queen's brothers had joined the circus invasion, it seemed, something Lyarra didn't mind nor entirely trust, a default after hearing her Father speak warily about Lannisters during all her fourteen years as the bastard of Winterfell. She could also see the tall youth a year or two her junior, mounted on a splendid young mare, who had the Lannister looks and a royal expression, who could only be the crown prince, Joffrey Baratheon. Sandor Clegane, half his face a messy massacre and the other as common as they got, was also glimpsed. 

The greeting shared between the King and Ned was jovial, at least on the wider man's side, who uttered with vocal capacities as great as his height; "Ned! It is good to see your frozen face after all these years!" Then he laughed from deep in his belly. "You haven't changed at all." 

Lyarra was willing to bet the same couldn't be said about Robert Baratheon, if the missing likeness to the old stories and her Father's almost-raised eyebrow was anything to go by. In the end, Lord Stark said; "Your Grace. Winterfell is yours."

The other leading figureheads were dismounting as well, and from the double-decked carriage of shining wood stepped the Queen. She, at least, was as beautiful and regal looking as the tales had spun. Tommen and Myrcella peeked forth from behind their Mother's fine skirts, Joffrey standing with them as tall as the Queen and as pompous looking, too. After Robert had hugged Lady Stark as if she were a sister, introductions were in order. 

It was hardly needed, for half of them. Joffrey's name was known as as they got for a crown prince, with his young siblings sharing the locks of gold in different shades closely followed. Then there was Robb Stark -"almost a man," said the King, "can become a good Lord of you, one day"- followed by Sansa Stark -"young and beautiful"- then Arya -"lively, isn't she, reminds me of Lyanna"- and then Bran -"I can see quite the knight in this one"- and young Rickon -"so young, so much life," he had laughed merrily- and then, clear eyes had been in her and Theon Greyjoy, who had stood next to her. The lazy ink of his hair showed signs of ruffling by the chilly breeze, lean and tall next to her despite Lyarra being a little above average height herself. 

"Theon Greyjoy and Lyarra Snow," spoke Lord Stark, clear and without wavering from the tone used for the others. The kindness had dimmed from the King's eyes, just the barest swath, but the warmth of it still stayed in those pale blue pools. 

"The ward and bastard," he chortled, not unkindly. There was a tinge of shame, or at least discomfort, as there always was at the notion of her birth, but the lack of bite saved her dignity. Not to mention, Theon was more of a hostage than a ward despite the treatment being as good as her own, if not better. Robert turned to him first; "You look like quite the warrior." And then to her, a mere stutter to his breath before he spoke; "And you- look just like Lyanna did. Just like her, only- a bit different." 

 _Ashara Dayne different_ , thought Lyarra as she managed a polite smile that left the King satisfied to take his leave. She had heard that name whispered often enough to believe few others could be the woman who had brought her to the realm. 

"And now, Ned, show me the crypts. I'd like to pay my respects," said Robert with bullheadedness ingrained in his voice. She exhaled slowly as he walked away back to her Father, Cersei at his heels asking; 

"It has been a long and tiring trip, surely that can wait a few hours?" 

The King didn't like nor accept that, a vexed red suffusing his skin closer to a ripe strawberry with blue eyes flashing. "No, this can't wait, woman!" 

Lyarra wanted to leave. Not because of the argument, flaring in front of her, heating like a stove and then decided with a decisive snap from Robert's side and Jaime's interference in the form of resting a calming hand on his sister's shoulder. 

She just wanted to go exploring with Arya and forget about everything for a moment. 

.

The feast was a marvelous affair, in terms of food, drinks and amassed people, at least. Catelyn had decided that, as a bastard, it wouldn't be proper for her to be present at the higher tables, let alone at the one with the Starks and royal guests. 

Lyarra couldn't find it in herself to mind. It was better that way, she figured, and not because of some nonexistent self-esteem issue that made her think she wasn't worthy. That she hadn't been born right, she had accepted, and while she didn't necessarily like being the tag-along likely to marry a Karstark or rich merchant within a year or two, it was better than being kicked out.

Maybe the boldness originated from her empty cup of ale, various times refilled, but the fact remained that she had no intention of sitting near the casually arrogant Joffrey, insipid little Myrcella, increasingly drunk Robert whose eyes raked over any woman with breasts to speak of, herself included, nor ice-cold Cersei of jewels and gold but with smiles as false as they got. Tommen was agreeable, though on the plump side. Rickon had been sent off to bed, and Bran seemed like he'd follow soon with the youngest Baratheon siblings. Then there was Sansa, lovely in her pale blue dress of Myrish silks and expensive muslin, blushing prettily, and little scowling Arya who had been flashed a warning look from her mother. Robb was entertaining Robert with stories of hunting, que the King laughing and slapping Ned on the back. 

Lyarra considered herself lucky to escape that. 

Theon seemed to have agreed, sauntering over to her table and flopping down onto the wooden bench across her at the table. The personal maid and head-accountant next to her didn't pay him any notice. Attentiveness had dimmed for the last hours, the buffet dragging on and mulled wine served more excessively than before, not to mention the appearance of a good brandy from the Highgardens. Lyarra had been happy to settle for ale and mead, eventually a glass of wine from the more northern regions of the Reach. She felt pleasantly light and relaxed, not drunk but still in an improved mood. 

"First time I've seen you drink this much," said the hostage-ward, perpetual amused smile on his lips. "Gotta hand it to you, you keep it well, all things considered." 

She wasn't sure if he meant being a woman or someone who usually never drank, likely both. She flashed him a smile with hints of teeth and sardonicism. "Gotta hand it to you, you're still an ass, all things considered." 

Theon laughed, as short as it was dry and genuine. He had drank more than her, she knew, had told him so. "Not wasted enough, I see." 

The question was how much _he_ saw, for a year ago she had seen him stumble through the halls of Winterfell the evening of Robb's nameday, drunk enough to see double. She held her tongue and figured it was still a long way to go before he got a stumble to his swagger. He reached for the pitcher of mulled wine she had stopped using and stole her empty glass. "Good stuff, this." 

"If you say so," she said. The deep blue and gray bodice of her dress sat tight around her ribs, but not enough to be inconvenient or uncomfortable. The dark chocolate of her hair, almost midnight black, had been gathered in an artfully braided bun secured with studded pins that twinkled in the dim light, the same deep blues and dark grays as her dress. The North did not have the vaults permitting importation of special dyes for brighter colors and glittering jewels, let alone have resources to extract it themselves, but the furs and intricate embroiders made up for it. 

She asked the busty head-maid for the tea, which Theon used as an excuse to start talking to her. His grin was rakish. Lyarra was well-endowed herself, but the woman next to her had merits larger than her head. 

Ned and Robert were still taking, so was Catelyn and Cersei who got along well enough for two noble ladies not particularly liking each other but preferring that conversation over nonsense. The youngest had all disappeared to their beds, Arya gone as well though undoubtedly roaming the corridors and pretending to be a spy instead of getting ready to sleep. Sansa and Joffrey were talking, and it curdled some of the warmth inside the Snow. She didn't like the Prince. He was more of a royal Ponce, if anything. 

Her mood soured further after a nameless squire seemed to believe that just because she was a bastard it meant she'd be as willing to spread her legs as her mother had been, what with his lewd flirting after Theon and the buxom maid had left. She barely noticed that it meant not many were in on the little rumor-secret concerning Ashara Dayne.

"You can go to hell," she told him in a hushed mutter, indignation flaring like a spark lit from flint. Deciding that if Arya saw her storm out of the rowdy room she'd say a dick with compensation issues had been hitting on her, she left without many people glancing up at her leave. The dark blue of her dress fluttered around her calves, like rippling water from a midnight lake. 

Outside, it was cold. The air itself seemed to have turned into frost, crisp and frozen, the ground blanketed in a layer of snow as soft and white as cotton, faintly glistering in the bleak sliver of moonlight filtering through the drifting clouds and the sprinkles of stars battling their light through the cover. It was refreshing, like a cold shower in the morning, a great difference from the room heated by both people and the hot water coursing through the walls like lifeblood in a body. Her feet lived their own lives and carried her to the training field an arch-windowed ambulatory down. The cold didn't bother her, didn't nip with pain against her naturally warm skin. A sword in her hand, heavy and not entirely balanced, and then she was hacking down at the wooden dummies set up. 

Time was like trickles of a leaking well, both fast and slow, an odd thing. Lyarra couldn't say for sure if she had been outside annihilating dummies for an hour or ten minutes, but long enough for the tremble of helpless anger to have been snuffed out and a quiver of soreness to have replaced it. Her crude work had barely followed the rules of drills, the dress had strained against every move, pulled against her shoulders for every swing, tangled around her legs, a vicious prison. For a split-second, she wished she had been a boy. She could've headed away to travel, it would've been acceptable, perhaps even joined the Night Watch, been at the Wall with Uncle Benjen Stark.

The second passed, blown away with the chilling wind. 

And then Tyrion Lannister happened. 

She had seen his shadow first, something dark moving to lurk in her peripheral vision, a homely crunching of snow reverberating in the dark air filled with frost. Her breaths left fading puffs of fog in the air, small clouds that curled and twisted into nothingness. Ghost, who had arrived at some point to stare at her hacking away, rose up with mutely bared teeth. 

Tyrion Lannister grinned despite the clumsy wobble of his stubby legs as he walked towards her. It was queer to be taller than a full grown man. "Is that animal a wolf?" 

"Direwolf," answered Lyarra, turning to face him and planting her sword like a shovel into the snow. "His name's Ghost. What are you doing here?" 

"It's hot, noisy and I'm not the only one who has drunk too much wine. At least I have the brains to leave," said the dwarf unabashedly. "I learned long ago that it is considered rude to vomit on your older brother. Might I have a closer look at your wolf?" 

She tried to imagine Ser Jaime's face when suddenly being thrown up onto. It was difficult but amusing nonetheless. She took a moment to watch the odd little thing before nodding. Ghost in question was watching the dwarf warily. When Tyrion reached out to pat him, he drew back with another mute snarl twisting his nuzzle into something fatally toothy. "A shy thing, isn't he?" Mused the dwarf Lannister. 

Lyarra rested her hand between Ghost's soft white ears, fingers brushing against the thick fur, and commanded; "Sit, Ghost. Good, now sit still." Glancing down at the Lion -though it was odd to think of Tyrion as a Lion- she told him; "You may touch him now, he won't move until I tell him." 

And Tyrion grinned again, albeit with less sharpness, and ruffled the snowy fur between short fingers. "Nice wolf." 

"If I wasn't here, he'd tear out your throat," Lyarra said quickly, though doubted Ghost was capable of that yet. He was still only a pup, although a direwolf one. 

"In that case, you'd better stay close," answered Tyrion as his arm retracted. She hadn't planned on leaving, one argument being that no party would be pleased if Lannister blood was spilled on Winterfell ground. "I am Tyrion Lannister." 

"I know," was her blunt answer. 

"And you're Ned Stark's bastard, aren't you?"

Her blood curdled together with whatever tentative no-longer-dislike had bloomed. Pale lips pressed pressed together, the dark eyes of her eyes cooling into the temperature of the frozen air.

"Did I offend you?" There was no mockery. "Sorry. Dwarfs don't have to be tactful. Generations of capering fools in motley have won me the right to dress badly and say any damn thing that comes into my head." And then he grinned again. "You _are_ the bastard, though." 

He said it was if it were only a simple truth, and maybe it was. 

"Let me give you some counsel, bastard," started the Lannister, paying no heed to how Lyarra was in no mood for any counsels. "Never forget who you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength so that it can no longer be your weakness, armor yourself in it, and it will not be used to hurt you anymore." 

"What do you know of being a bastard?" 

"All dwarfs are bastards in their father's eyes." 

Lyarra stared at the dwarf - _Imp_ , he was called behind his back, people always had different names behind corners- at the small man in front who couldn't wield weapons nor walk like others. Who only had his head and sharp tongue. 

"Remember this. All dwarfs may be bastards, but not all bastards are dwarfs." And then he turned in his heels and waddled back towards the feast, a merry whistle in his lips. In the light of the wide doorframe, his shadow was cast long and defined across the yard, longer than anybody else's. 

Lyarra thought about Catelyn, of pretty Sansa and free Arya. Old Nan and her stories, Septa Mordane and her chiding lectures. Bran, Robb and Rickon, her half-brothers with the future part of her soul yearned for. Eddard Stark, honorable and courageous, Lord Paramount of the North. 

Then she turned around and for a moment, she was the wind. Streamlined, smooth and gliding, the sword arched and cleaved the air. In one fell swoop, the makeshift head of a dummy had been cut off clean.

For a moment, everything felt fine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll admit that I had originally planned this to be a Lyarra x Aegon VI Targaryen, but when I was halfway this chapter the idea sort of... slipped?  
> Anyway, so- much- plot- planned for this story. There'll be the romance part too, of course, or whatever the Westeros-Game equivalent is of it^^


	2. Where The North Does Not Reach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm certain I had the biggest "uhhmm" moment of my life after publishing the first chapter. I had no idea so many would actually read it. I'm at loss for words -except for, maybe, a huuuge thank you!  
> One warning for this chapter; one death.

"You called." Lyarra's voice was only half as tense as her shoulders. Sitting down under the weight of the long and heavy a stare he leveled her with for a good few moments, she guessed almost instinctively Lord Stark would come with news that had the potential to shake her stable life, or at least its stable attributes. His hands were clasped atop over papers he had been jutting down notes upon.

"How would King's Landing appeal to you?" 

She was certain there was little choice in the matter, as staying in Winterfell with Lady Catelyn would be too trying for her to dare, especially as she was of marriageable age and thus easily sent away. She'd rather accompany Ned than having to bow her head and, ultimately, have no say whatsoever once she was sent away to be wedded, bedded and never to see Winterfell again. Catelyn was rarely openly disdainful -if anything, both parties avoided interaction when possible- but even her education, the only sign of false care, had been done to serve the Starks. ( _Family, honor, duty_.) So Lyarra's lips twitched, a semblance of a smile; "It does, Father." 

Her wool dress, a flattering garment of dark ash gray, was her most comfortable one, yet the slight grit and chill lingered on her skin after her early morning practice. It had only been for an hour, she had no dared practice longer, but once again she'd pushed the limits and it left her with the odd concoction of satisfaction of fearful guilt. It was no secret, but word of it never met the air. Ned gave her another solemn look, as melancholic as the frozen sunrise painting the heavens outside with an explosion of warm yellows and rich orange straight from Dorne. "Cat and I have decided that there would be more opportunities there for you. I'm sure you'll find the climate pleasant, a good match to your liking and the library a haven." 

Lyarra thought about reading perched atop the windowsill of the library tower, tinted glass cool to the touch and casting a deep violet glow across her page, of sewing delicate little patterns across the necklines of her dresses together with Sansa in rare moment of amiable peace, of sparring with Robb clad in breeches and a tunic once a week, of suffering Theon's japes as he accompanied her and Robb hunting, of reading old tales from far lands with Bran, watching over waddling little Rickon as he played with wooden knights, of running through the maze of corridors with Arya on her heels as they explored under the pretense of infiltrating, of all those sacred little moments between her and Father that she treasured in the locket he had given her for her thirteenth nameday a bit over a year ago. _That_ appealed to her. 

"I'm certain I'll enjoy myself," she managed, and while it wasn't a lie, she'd have enjoyed it more if it meant returning to Winterfell as if time hadn't passed. Likelihood spelled return to the North would not be happening. 

He rested his larger, more calloused hand atop hers, the warmth of his hand radiating and startling, rough to the touch but painfully familiar. It had been so long. "You will always be a Stark," he told her, voice its usual baritone, calm security. She remembered being a little girl, thinking Father was the greatest and most powerful man of them all, and she'd be his little girl forever in his safe castle. It was difficult for Lyarra to decide whether she was, had been, sheltered or not. But now there was an underlying intensity in his eyes, tone firm and deliberate, its usual self in name only. "No matter what names you take, a Wolf always remains a Wolf."

For a moment his fingers twitched, as if he had wanted to cradle her hand in his, and she almost wanted him to. Wanted him to say _you can always come back here, Winterfell will always be open for you,_ but that would be a lie. Once the King departed he'd ride along south to become the Hand, Catelyn would stay in the castle with injured Bran and Robb, but a boy-man, would have to take charge with aid of Maester Luwin, fill the holes and posts of absent stewards, horse masters and other heads. She heard herself saying, echoing Septa Mordane's courtesy lectures; "Of course." 

For a moment she felt like she was floating outside of her body, misty haze in her mind as realization hit. Only it didn't hit, rather it seeped like water, a childhood of safety in the North's harsh climate coming to and end. 

( _Bran's broken body sprawled with tangled limbs jutting out all wrong- Joffrey's scathing scorn as he beheld Arya with her sword- Cersei's smile of beauty and deadly ice- Catelyn's whirlwind of force dying like a drowning squirrel in an icy pond-_ ) 

Then she was calm again, a light exhale, her Father's hand warm and comforting. It would be better this way, she mused, hoped, nostalgic yet not regretful. 

Winter was coming. 

.

It had been a pleasant day, finally away from the humid and stifling swamps of the Neck. 

Birds chirped like a choir of winged musicians, the full clattering of hooves drumming the beat as the wind whistled a serene flute through the verdant canopies. The sky was as blue as the satin of Sansa's dress, dotted with wandering cotton clouds the color of Ghost's fur. 

But Ghost's fur had turned red with thick, rich blood the color of expensive jewels. It had coated Ned's greatsword Ice, too, red rain dripping from the tip and painting the grass with spreading splatters. Lady still lay next to her sibling, lifeblood drenching the earth around them, and for a moment, Lyarra had almost believed that if everything should suddenly freeze, the blood would turn to a solid ruby encasing the direwolf pups in a tomb befitting them. 

But neither deserved to be dead ( _not Ghost, oh please not Ghost, not him, he was innocent, he was hers and hers alone, her very own, please not Ghost_ ), neither had faulted, least of all soft little Lady even though Lyarra could only think about eyes of fire and blood and fur of ice and snow. ( _Snow and fire and blood_.)

Arya wasn't to be found, either, mayhaps for the better. The dark-haired Snow wasn't sure what she'd do -she could understand that Arya had been angry at Joffrey, the little shit, but did she never think of the _consequences,_ could she not think of how people were at heart, people like Cersei and Joffrey, of how _Ghost hadn't deserved to die_ \- but Sansa was livid, Dorne-hot tears springing to sapphire pools as a muscle in her jaw tensed, and then the redhead's face was buried into her soft pillow. 

Her most prominent feeling, shamefully enough, was not anger nor heartbreak. It was numbing shock, as if she'd thrown herself into icy waters and drifted around for a while. 

"Lady never did _anything_ , she was so good, so very good," she wept, from deep in her throat and soul, without dignity nor beauty. It was only the two of them, however, so it was permitted, was no need for restrictions nor propriety. 

( _Bastards have poisoned Ladies of her family to get the titles themselves as only remaining daughters, Septa Mordane had once preached with cold eyes. They have seduced the heirs and twisted minds._ ) 

But at that moment, Lyarra was no bastard and Sansa was no trueborn young lady. 

"It is unfair," she wrung out in agreement, the _hotcoldwetdry_  wind inside picking up into a storm, cleaving her insides with sorrow-soaked blades the angry color of Ghost's blood. It knotted her vocal chords, a choker of invisible rope pulled taut inside, needles of anger pricking her hearts with slow, shuddering, silent and venomous rage, hissing serpents as mute as Ghost but with fangs bared and beetle-eyes gleaming. " _It's unfair_." 

(It always was.) 

When Arya was angry, the very earth she stood upon trembled with her fury. It was a storm of hail and lightning, raging with thunder and fanfare in all its crackling glory, a destructive and aggressive force of nature. 

When Sansa was angered she wouldn't look vexed, but weep. It was a dousing rain that pelted and cleansed, soaking slowly but surely to the bone. 

When Lyarra was angry, she was her very own name, Snow. It was a never ending snowfall, silent and frigid, gently, almost silkily, covering every surface around her until all around her curled into itself and withered, softly squeezing the life out with a soul of unforgiving steel. 

She wasn't good at forgiving. 

"Lady was perfect and Arya ruined it, _ruined it,_  now they've killed Lady and Joffrey's hurt and hates me- why did it have to- _why_ \- Lady didn't do anything- she was so calm and nice, and now Lady is _dead_ -"  

"I know," she cut off, neither brusque nor snapping, but high dudgeon stained her voice. Words felt empty even as they weighed heavily on the tip of her tongue, meaningless and unnecessary. There was so much to say yet nothing could be conveyed. " _I know_." 

She thought of an affectionate spark in scarlet eyes, of Ghost curling up at the foot of her bed and warming her feet, of riding out hunting as if she were a boy with Robb and Theon, Grey Wind and Ghost trailing after with wagging tails, of soft milky fur slipping between fingers, companionship if she struggled with the latest poem during a lesson. 

Lyarra thought of Cersei. Of golden locks and emerald orbs, a smile that could cut through glass. 

Lyarra wasn't certain what exactly had happened -Joffrey, Arya, Sansa, _JoffreyAryaSansa_ , who had done it, which sister was lying- but Cersei had stood there as a statue of golden eyes when she said _where are the others_? It was easier to hate her, more bearable than the blaming needle against Sansa and Arya. Joffrey was a well-established shit, Cersei was a bitch, and Lyarra had only stood in helpless rage, forcefully smothered to hinder herself from doing something rash. Attempting to. Murdering Queens and Princes was easier said than done. 

Sansa cried, not at all pretty and ladylike befitting her persona and grace, but heart wrenchingly carved deep inside, face ugly red and blotchy, clashing horribly with the carmine-auburn of her hair, a watery haze of tears glossing her eyes. "She's _dead_." 

"It wasn't just," Lyarra spoke repetetively, and her grip on the unread book tightened precariously as she though of Ned's words about honor, courage and righteousness, and the lack thereof in this entourage, in _Cersei and Joffrey_ , of panicked and angered Arya, slain direwolves and the bloody Ice. There was no comfort in her, she knew, but at least she was there. "It wasn't fucking right." 

"Language," Sansa snivelled into the pillow, clinging onto the familiarity of chiding and correcting and knowing better, a last thread. The room they were in was unfamiliar, given by the unwillingly gracious Ser Raymund Darry housing the King and his company. Tensions were high as the Darrys had fought with the Targaryens at the Trident, something neither party had forgotten, and crammed into the same room at dinner when it didn't fit everyone's personal space made the buffer zones blur by passing days. 

"Things aren't like the songs," she imparted as a reply, tone flat steel, water rippling just underneath the surface of a frozen lake. "This is how it works. It's not about what is wrong and what is right, it is about power and setting examples."

And for a moment, she almost thought Sansa understood fully and agreed. But then, a tsunami of years and years spent hoping and dreaming tumbled back. "It will be. One day, we'll be a song, too." 

Lyarra wished she could dream so high and light, as well. 

.

King's Landing was urban, crowded and stretched on further than any other city Lyarra Snow had ever seen. Proudly perched atop Aegon's Hill was the famed Red Keep, its walls as granite-red and veined with vivid crimsons among the duller beiges and grays as the stories. The houses underneath stretched on like dollhouse villages, streets running through, some wide and spacious, others winding and turning as they grew narrower the deeper into the poorer neighborhoods they twisted their way forth, snakelike, as if they were the splitting delta of a river. 

It was also very warm, woolen dresses would be replaced by cotton, silk, satin, muslin, chiffon, linen and more. Trees stood lush and green as they lined the neat road through the sturdy, tall gates into the Keep. Behind an ambulatory lined with archways cutting through the grassy yard, she could glimpse the gardens, where walkways webbed about the flourishing flowers and vines gardened to grow along wooden poles created green arches spanning over the heads for shade and beauty. There were short, thriving trees growing in an organized mess almost natural to the eye, some adorned by small white flowers like stars among the dark leaves, others carrying great pale-pink flowers the size of her fists with delicate petals. She was certain she could hear a fountain, but it must've been obscured by the eyecandy garden. 

Jeyne Poole and Sansa, predictably, fell in love at the sight of it all, drinking in the graceful spires and ornate pavilions connected by archways, rising towers and many chambers, numerous gardens of different types scattered about. Lyarra would be a hypocrite if she blamed them for adoring the aesthetics of it. 

A young maid in her late twenties with inky hair spilling down her back from a waterfall braid escorted her, along with Vayon Poole as her Father had been summoned to a meeting the second he rode through the great bronzen gates, her sisters, the men and few women chosen to accompany them, down the stone hallways of the gracefully light castle. Her chambers were located next to Arya's, who in turn was next to Sansa. It was a surprise to have been placed next to her family despite being a bastard -she had expected to be put with the servants- and while Sansa, once again trueborn lady, thinned her lips at the sight and simply headed into her room, Arya, who had rediscovered her rebellious streak after days of muted silence atop her horse, grinned wildly at her sister. Lyarra doubted she understood that it was a miracle she was with them in this corridor, but the sight of Arya's sun breaking free from behind days of clouds thawed some Cersei-induced ice around her heart. 

"Did you like what you've seen so far?" Lyarra asked with a friendly grin, and the younger girl nodded brightly, then frowned and shook her head. 

"I don't know," she admitted with a twitch to her nose, a scoff just underneath the surface. "It's so warm here, and Sansa keeps telling me _dress like this and that and be courteous and behave_ , and it all looks so odd." 

Foreign would be a better word for it, Lyarra figured, but understood nonetheless. She thought only of Arya -lectures and chiding and freedom and expectations- when she uttered; "We're at the King's court, some sacrifices in behavior when under supervision can't be too bad, can it?" 

It was the wrong thing to say, she instantly noticed. The Snow felt as if she had spilt a crystal pitcher of water, out of control and seeing it happen. "Not you too! Wearing dresses and quietly sewing by the window- why can't we go explore instead!?" 

Not waiting for a reply, which likely would've gone along the lines of 'only when Sansa and some others are around, only to avoid causing outrage or shock', Arya stormed into her room with a thunderous expression brewing on her long face. Lyarra had always been like that, behaved when it was time to and misbehaved when there would be little repercussions. And, as she looked then the slammed-shut door in front of her, she heaved a sigh that did little to alleviate the weight sagging her shoulders. 

Inside her own rooms, the double glass doors leading to the small balcony fitting a chair and a small table at most were open, making the pale peach curtains dance in the light, fruity breeze from outside. From what she had glimpsed of Arya's and Sansa's chambers, hers were smaller but no less luxurious. It almost felt too much, were it not for the weariness after her long journey settling into her very bones. The dresser, garderobe, nightstand and small desk were all of the same rich cherry wood, lacquered to gleam and smooth to the touch, expertly carved and with few but tasteful decorations lining the edges on some pieces, bringing a warmer touch against pale walls. A bed with curtains the same silken apricot-gold as the pair at the window doors stood against the wall, wide and soft with blankets and pillows of pink-gold and coppery reds. Lannister colors, with only hints of blacks and other shades. 

Lyarra wondered if Robert knew the guest chambers were being converted into something from Casterly Rock.

Despite feeling like thoroughly marinating in a welcome bath or blessing the bed with her first sleep, she continued on. 

The adjoined room had walls, roofs and floors of the same gleaming pale stone, a light beige that, in the light of the sinking sun shading the sky in arrays of violets and pastel pinks, almost seemed rosy as it glowed through the frosted glass. A white tube stood lavishly next to the mahogany-framed mirror, the largest she had seen yet. Fluffy towels had been neatly folded and placed atop the small cupboard, where she could glimpse colored flasks of oil, soaps and other products through the woven pattern of the thin wood on the drawer, and there was even a paper screen for changing patterned with a pond where all animals of the various Houses had gathered -she could even see the Tully fish in the water with the Greyjoy kraken, as well as a dragon circling the sky with a playful falcon. She was certain the artist had been foreign, because the style was delicate and subtle, the opposite of both Targaryen rule and Baratheon rule. 

It wasn't until the pads of her fingers touched the grey direwolf, the material of the screen silken but papery, that she realized she had moved. Tracing the quiet snarl of its nuzzle, the sharp ears, the fur around its neck. The stag, lion and golden rose watched her, and finally the stare of the sun caught her eye. Ashara Dayne had been from there, she knew, and felt little, but not nothing. The drop of sad curiosity grew into a rippling puddle, a pond, a lake, rushing river from the mountains, a sea of turbulent waves. And then- 

A pale hand, slender fingers too calloused to be entirely ladylike, covered the sun like a cloud. It was cold underneath her palm, only a splash of paint upon a thin canvas. 

Lyarra tried not to be disappointed, but failed miserably. 

.

Once dinners in King's Landing had lost its novelty, a new surprise graced the table in the form of an increasingly moody Eddard Stark. A Tourney was being held in his honor, thrown by the King to celebrate the new Hand, although it was Ned himself who had to do all the work without being asked his opinion. Her inner Arya wanted to joust, to ride a trusted steed and see if her mock games against Robb and Theon had payed off. In the North Tourneys were seen as unnecessary frivolities, but now that she was in the middle of the festivity it was no less exciting. She barely spared a thought of mayhaps, if luck were on her side, finding a third son or squire who would be willing to take her as a wife, so her inner Sansa remained mostly mute. During dinners, energy would sizzle closer to the surface for every day of waking in the lush and impressive gardens or sewing delicate patterns at the flaring hems of her thin sleeves. Fashion in the South was vastly different, materials aside, with lower necklines and impractically sweeping sleeves, rustling skirts swaying at the slightest breeze. Colors were lighter and brighter, pastels in their golden era, with additional swaths of deep red, cobalt and a magenta bordering violet becoming increasingly popular as well, and hairdos were in intricate ups of twists and braids, shining with preferably a few mellow curls. Her own hair was a little too curly and unwilling, but she had quietly settled for a style loosely pulling back her bangs and hair at the temples into a sleek bun braided with a deep agate-purple ribbon.

She missed sword fighting. She missed riding. She even missed having Theon laughing at her whenever she attempted using his bow and arrow, she had never had an aptitude for it, and hunting in the forest. She longed for the weirwood's bleeding eyes and solemn, knowing lips. 

(She missed Ghost, _snowfireblood_ , and forever and always, she swore, would there be a blackened chamber in her heart reserved for Cersei and Joffrey.)

Sansa was growing up into the archetype of a proper, idealistic young lady, excelling in every lesson of womanly arts. Arya was wild and free, her heart and soul channeling her mind and lifeblood. One could do with less naivety, the other with more tact, but she wouldn't try to change them spare for a word of wisdom, or what she considered her own wisdom, she wouldn't be able to keep within the prison of her teeth. Lyarra had gotten a taste of the ladyship, with both lessons and dinners, and now court to some extent although she wasn't in it. She had also tasted nectar of freedom on the tip of her tongue when galloping in the late summer snows, when wielding steel in her hand and wearing men's clothes. In the end, she was caught in an infuriating equilibrium stranding her in nowhere, neither free nor a lady. 

"I can't wait," Sansa told Jeyne in a delighted hush after a dish of sweetly roasted ribs sprinkled with thyme and rosemary had been served, nimbly cutting her steamed potato. "Ser Jaime is competing, and so is the Knight of Flowers, Loras Tyrell." 

"Many are betting on the Clegane brothers," Jeyne started, words sober but expression one of secretive excitement. "But I'm willing to bet a young and handsome knight will make his debut in the Tourney and make success." 

Ned looked up from his thoughtful frowning to his plate, a brush away from distracted, apparently oblivious to the way this Tourney could become a song of its own. Lyarra speared a cooked pea on her fork, watching the interaction with idle interest. "Ser Barristan will be jousting, too, even if that isn't his best skill, together with Ser Meryn from the Kingsguard, and Yohn Royce will be in the melee." 

Sansa turned to him with a patient smile usually offered to an old Lady no longer able to wield the needle as she had once done. "Father, they're all old."

Lyarra couldn't keep her smile from spreading at Ned's folded look, and told him; "Fear not, Sansa thinks men over twenty are old as well." 

The young redhead in question look miffed at that, as if it had been an insult to her beliefs. Jeyne was the one less picky about age of the two, but she, too, glanced up at Lyarra over her raised for about to deliver meat. "Are you implying something?" 

"Of course not," replied the bastard Snow, and truly she hadn't, but an amused snort still tugged temptingly inside. "Only assured Father he wasn't old." 

It was much later that evening, when Lyarra had sought the pavilion just outside the dinner table for a peaceful read away from prying eyes -or at least talkative tongues- that she noticed Eddard slowly wandering through the garden, amble almost peaceful, slow, too slow. His very gait spoke of deep thoughts, and she almost found it disconcerting how easily she noticed. 

"Father," she had spoke up before the word had been caged, standing up and niftily placing a simple bookmark between the creamy pages before closing her book. "It's a nice evening for a walk, is it not?" 

She wondered what he was thinking about, itched to know as much as she thirsted for an unladylike war cry as she charged into a spar. Ned looked up from where he had been blindly staring at a square of healthy violets, the furrow between his brows and creases around his eyes smoothing when he laid gray eyes upon her. "Lyarra. So it's here you come to read before dusk." 

She smiled as a confirmation, small and a grin in all but name as she stepped down the two stairs to walk up to him. "What was on your mind? Bran's condition didn't worsen, did it? He just woke up." 

The Quiet Wolf gave her one of his signature long and old stares, the sinking sun of amber casting a revealing light onto the new streak of silver at his temples. "No, Bran is quite fine, from what I've heard." There was a pause, a gentle rustling of leaves and a distant chiming of a fountain, a marble structure she knew to have spectacular carvings with a twisting arch sprouting clear water. "All is going well, I take? Are you enjoying your stay?" 

Lyarra thought of the kind merchant she as growing closer too, one Everan Nayhills ten years her senior whom she had met when he was delivering cloth to the castle as the main supplier, and the potential marriage brewing underneath the companionable acquaintanceship. "Yes, all is well. The weather isn't too hot, and it's all very accommodating." 

There were moments, she had noticed lately, when he'd glance at her with a scrutiny almost worried trepidation in nature, as if she'd one day bound off to Essos and not come back, or be accused of grave thievery. The heavy a look he rested on her for that moment, caring and almost melancholic as though imagining when she had still be small and dependent, could almost be designated under that category.

"You seemed to be in deep thought before." 

"Perhaps," he replied vaguely, once again ensnared by the dazing thought she had chased away. "I was thinking of how you look more and more like you mother- and father- look a bit like me. And, the Tourney of course. Always the Tourney." 

She wanted to ask him about her mother, wanted to hear him speak of Ashara Dayne, yet no sound would leave the pale pink of her lips. It occurred to her she had never heard him even say her name, never even mention her mother. It made the barrier all the thicker, more impenetrable, an invisible shield of obscurity and stubbornness surrounding him and the details of her birth. 

Lyarra had some reading to do. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It isn't until now, chapter finished and polished, that I figure Ned probably wouldn't have taken her with him to King's Landing in fear of her identity being exposed. But, oh well, I'm only a fanfic writer!  
> (Can I just cry out for Ghost?)


	3. Glass Ceiling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Majorly edited about 20 hours after publishing chapter*
> 
> A-ha! Yes, everybody, this is an update^^ Thank you so much everybody, and sorry for the long wait. I'm afraid the first part of the chapter is rather slow, but towards the middle of it I think I found myself again... I want to get to the "interesting" part of the story (read: the entire story spare the beginning) as quickly as possible, but as some of you might know, I'm unable to rush things without feeling like what I just wrote is a load of bull, so it may take another chapter or so before the ball really starts rolling. I may have mentioned this before, but yes, indeed, Lyarra being a Targaryen will not be spared for the final moments of the story, it will come in much earlier. Much of the plot builds on it. 
> 
> And, yes, I know that when I killed off Ghost a lot of you must have been very put off, but if it helps, which is probably won't: I struggled so much when writing that. Every few minutes I wanted to go back and make a surrealist, ill-thought out escape for our favorite Direworlf. *Spoiler* But- erm- dragons? Can you imagine Lyarra with a dragon instead? 
> 
> Finally, addressing the angsty undertones of this chapter: I think not knowing what's going on can sometimes be more stressful that having a clear idea, so for all those who find Lyarra too angsty- it's only for this chapter. It's a sort of drifter chapter, I'm afraid. So please, out of all the chapters possible in this fic, judge this one the least of all???
> 
> Enjoy!

The sun was still on its slow ascent towards zenith when Lyarra snuck out of the solarium where she'd poured over three books detailing the Daynes. One was frankly useless, as it recorded the flora and fauna around Starfall, but the second one was her favorite as it named every single Dayne to have lived as well as their lives- even if Arthur Dayne had a much longer paragraph than Ashara, granted. The third one was a more general one of the Houses in Dorne, and together with the first it found itself in the shadows of the book basking in her attention. Although, all three were still securely slid into her handy little knapsack purse which none would take too much notice of since she'd chosen her library-raiding dress which matched her book bag, making it much more inconspicuous. 

She'd found nothing, spare for a fleeting mention of Ashara Dayne's beauty. .... _as well as his sister, Ashara, esteemed for her great beauty_... That had been all she could fawn over, that and how their eyes had initially, hundreds of years ago, had them mistaken for having Valyrian descent, a tidbit of information she had not known about. Then there was a brief mention of age, time of birth and death, marital state and being lady-in-waiting to Elia Martell. It had been a disappointment, as even though Lyarra could not for the world explain it, she found she had -somewhere along the way- saddled herself with an expectation. It reminded her of the time she'd desperately looked forward to the soirée held at Winterfell when she'd been two-and-ten, and when arriving, momentarily awed by the effort all had made for appearances, clad in their best with winking and gleaming metals of jewelry, buckles, pieces of armor, clips and whatnot playfully reflecting the candlelight, only to then sit silently in the corner with the Head Maid and other important staff for most of the meal, Theon leaving halfway with his eyes on a passing young servant doing the waitressing. 

The sort of disappointment one ended up shrugging at. What she'd expected to begin with was a mystery she was unable to solve, but she did not let it hinder her. The Tourney of the Hand had ended just the evening before, and while she was wary by the off-putting and intimidating Hound, him saying _I am no Ser_ to Loras Tyrell when being handed the victory was a moment wherein she almost found him admirable. Sansa still wore the rose the slender young Loras'd gifted her with two days before, the velvety soft flower delicately placed in her hair that morning. Then she thought of the young knight whose name she hadn't caught, dying with blood conquering the red little moon sickles of his blue cape. He'd died so unnecessarily. The Mountain had done that. Gregor Clegane had also tried to kill Loras Tyrell. But he hadn't: only his fiery mount had been slain by his blade. 

Just like Ghost had died beneath Ice.

She shook away the lead-like thoughts threatening to sink down and weigh on her mind and shoulders, walking down the white walkway lined with the graceful little arching columns allowing creeping vines to span across as a natural roof twining overhead, calm greens dotted with soft white flowers eagerly peering around then like little faces. In the distance, near the discreetly gurgling fountain whose clear water glittered like liquid diamonds when the sun's white rays caught it just so, she could glimpse Ned and Cersei talking. Neither looked all too happy, even though the Quiet Wolf was serious and composed as always while the golden Lady smiled like the first frost of winter, as cold and stunning as the delicate little rime frost which would spread out like white lace across the grassy hills to the north. She took an other turn to leave them in peace, passing a young woman hurrying towards the servant's exit whom she did not even glance at, for he brief glimpse she'd caught said enough: the color of the dress was too rich and striking while the cut was too insinuating and sensual. 

Two turns in she found herself in an other part of the courtyard. Two golden-topped heads not too far away betrayed more Lannisters were lurking about, although these were even further away than she'd been from the quietly conversing Hand and Queen. Music drifted on the wind from one of the windows, perhaps two lavish stairs up, a gentle harmony of flute and a high harp. She smiled, almost ducking her head at the small twitch of pale pink lips, holding her little artichoke-green bag nearer. She almost jumped when the sweet sounds were distorted and interrupted by the voices of two men walking on an other path nearby, just on the other side of the large, trimmed rose bushes.

One of them, speaking in a rather scratchy voice, seemed to work at the stables, saying: "-never understoo' what the horses did wrong. Either way, t's just unfair, the Mountain didn't have to kill a perfectly good stallion- it was one o' the finest I've seen, an' that's sayin' somethin', I've been around for a while- but point bein', there's no use for executions-" 

"I'm not to sure y'can execute an animal," interjected the second, much younger sounding. Lyarra had to disagree: Ghost had been unjustly executed, slain just like that. "I mean, sure, y'can kill 'em, but the word _execute_ -" 

"No, no, no," said the man from the stables, their voices and footsteps growing quieter behind her. "Animals shouldn' be treated in such horrid a way-"

Lyarra wished there were more people like him around. The music once again only had to compete with the thriving bird life. The leaves rustled like ruffled skirts above, a subtle little background hymn. It was so very different in King's Landing, in the very Red Keep, than what she's grown up with. The verdant greenery, the lush flowers, ripening fruits and flourishing variation of life was like a splattering of colors on a canvas, layers and layers until it seemed like something straight from a heavenly novel whose author had gotten carried away in the descriptions. She thought Bran would have adored the place: so many places to climb, to explore together with Arya. Her own heart thudded with the longing to explore. Granted, she was all alone and she did not know the castle all too well, but surely the latter was a valid reason? At worst, if asked about her whereabouts, could she not simply claim she'd gotten lost? 

She took a turn, leaving the fragrant breeze and speckled shade behind as the slight cool of the castle enveloped her. The architecture was much more ornate and elaborate than what had used to be her home, filled with little carvings in the alcoves and additional columns outlined in the defiant walls reaching high and graceful to support the roofs. She scaled a staircase whose railing was embedded into the white-red walls, jutting out with a sturdy curve downwards, smooth and polished as it shone where the large gaping windows facing the courtyard now below filtered in the sunlight. She came face to face with an airy hallway, one side filled with the large, empty windows facing the gardens and the other having six doors all together, with a corridor branching off in the middle. Towards the end, the hallway ended in a T, the left following the same pattern to face the courtyard, albeit from an other angle, and the right disappearing. 

The first two doors were silent and uninteresting, but the third proved to hide people from her view, as when she passed she heard the clear hisses of an angry duo arguing whilst attempting not to be too loud, lest their voiced be carried too far away and bounce of the stone walls in revealing echoes. She traipsed into the slightly smaller corridor, wherein sunlight had it more difficult to reach and the light was but a muted, dusty glow. At the end, she found herself at a steep staircase winding downwards. Without hesitation, she descended, pale olive skirts fluttering around her ankles. She passed a young man on his way up towards the higher levels. Even if his bright golden hair hadn't given it away, the gold and vivid crimson of his clothes glared with Lannister pride. Lyarra nodded as a greeting and moved past. Without intending to, she noticed the healthy flush on his cheeks and sheen to his eyes, even as he wordlessly passed her after the barest, polite nod in her general direction. 

Perhaps he had been the one to enjoy the brightly dressed young woman who'd snuck out of the castle through the courtyard: Lyarra figured, with some notion of relief, she would never know -lest there be a twist of events she wanted no part in. 

She ended up just above to a patio she had not known existed until then, barely a longbow's length above the ground but unable to spot any place to descend the final steps. Up it was, instead, and when passing a corridor bustling with activity and the heady smells of various meals, she knew she'd somehow maneuvered not too far from the kitchens. When finally escaping the commotion, it struck her there were surprisingly many Lannisters present. Japing to herself, like Theon had used to, she wondered if there were even more in the Red Keep than at Casterly Rock. She shook her head. Ned had always distrusted the Lannisters and while thus far there had yet to be any prominent event during which she could think positively of them, spare perhaps Cersei's beauty and Jaime's skills at jousting, a rational part of her found it hard to believe the Lannisters were truly as unreliable as the Warden of the North had made it out to be. Then she thought of her red and golden tinged chambers, the many Lannisters webbing across the entirety of the grounds. 

Lyarra pursed her lips and opted to think no more of it. She thought perhaps she heard Arya down the hallway leading to a more secluded part of the wing, and brightened as she quickened her step- but all she found were the retreating echoes of running steps and the screeching sound of an angry cat meowing with fury in the distance. 

With a sigh, she headed back in the general direction she believed the southern gardens were in. Her fingers still itched with the slight forming of shy blisters from paying the harp after a mooncycle of leaving it be, but her hands and fire yearned for holding a blade and doing all the practices and drills she'd left behind in Winterfell. _How lucky Robb and Theo are_ , the young raven mourned while deciding she'd simply have to write them, _up there with their hunting and sword practices and mock fights_. 

She sighed, a short little burst of air almost truce between a snort and a scoff. Perhaps she would be able to talk to Ned about it? She had more than a hunch Arya had secured private lessons, and though she would not press for such a gift, at the very least she could ask for a blade. She'd be able to take it from there. 

But it turned out Eddard Stark had headed out. The last thing anybody had heard of him had been very recently, for according to the stable master he'd headed out visiting Jon Arryn's latest destinations. 

.

Lyarra had locked herself into the bathroom. Once again, Lannisters shed Northron blood, yet this time along it had been in the streets of Kings's Landing with human blood instead of direwolf blood seeping into the grass. At first she'd sought quiet refuge inside her appointed room, but there everything was shades of red and gold sneaking up on her, tiptoeing along and creeping around her. Only the bathroom had other colors, simple whites and grays, hints of browns, the colorful paper screen. Lyarra wanted to talk to somebody, tell somebody about her fears, confide and alleviate the pressure caused more by unanswered alarm than actual information. But Ned was off getting treatment for his crushed leg, Sansa didn't understand even if her love for King's Landing as well as Cersei and Joffrey had cooled fractionally, Arya was off as she'd been so often lately, off without telling her, off without bringing her along like she used to, like _they_ used to, getting callouses and muscles and taking the path Lyarra found herself drifting away from. Jory Cassel was dead, slain in the streets of King's Landing together with so many others, almost all the others, all those who'd jousted to cheers and friends, those who'd she'd eaten with at dinner only a sennight before. 

And Lyarra was alone. 

The water in the tub was hot, soothing her skin and steam curling in the air like tendrils of smoke, twisting and turning as though they were in pain, mute shrieks ringing in her ears even though all to be heard was the everyday bustle in other corners of the great castle and merry chirping of the birds cherrily fluttering about outside. A little haven of calm in the adjoint room, the door securely closed, although if somebody truly wanted to barge in it wouldn't do much good. The stones were of that special creamy white shading the room with a sense of additional warmth, not counting the ungodly heated temperature she'd dared herself into -anything to forget for a moment, to find calm, to distract, even if it meant pain, but the pain wouldn't come- as well as the syrupy orange and sticky coral arrays the skies were discoloring into as the sun was morbidly swallowed by the uncaringly calm seas. 

She wondered where Arya was. The younger half-sister had passingly mentioned one Syrio Forel, but Lyarra hadn't been able to pry more out of her and she'd not wanted to risk Arya's ever-thinning temper, even though something inside her ached. It felt as though she stood on the edge of precipice, as though they all were, attached by a thin string and nobody would notice the chasm gaping at them in a hideous, shadowed smirk. Was killing all companions to the King's Hand an everyday thing? She'd even looked it up in the library, a book on past Hands innocently laying on her nightstand next to the one about The Oldest Side of Dorne, the only book with a long chapter on the Dayne's. It didn't seem like it. 

The paper screen next to the bath met her stare as her see dark-violet gaze shifted. There the sun was, and next to it, the little star, but no matter how hard she tried, no matter how desperately she grappled around for even a spark, Lyarra couldn't feel anything other than a warm sort of curiosity, such as when not having enough information about a character in a novel she'd taken a fancy to. Then her eyes fell on the mute snarl of the dire wolf and her throat ran dry. Ghost had possessed the same silent baring of teeth, the same almost elegantly pointy ears. 

But Ghost, too, was gone. 

She should've freed him, let him run off, perhaps he'd have found Arya's Nymeria. But when would she have had the time to do such a thing, when could it have been accomplished, _how_ could she have done so? She sunk deeper into the tub, legs bending and making her knees appear above the surface like two pale little islands. The water reached up to her neck like the soothing kiss of silk, encompassing her like a hug, like a caress, and for a moment she could almost imagine the water coming from the beloved hot springs of Winterfell. How often hadn't somebody chided her about taking too hot water. _Too oft, most likely_ , she decided with a fond little smile jagged at the edges, because even Lord Stark had told her to be careful. 

Perhaps she ought do busy herself with something to distract her fussing, straying mind. It made her lips thin momentarily, like a bow being pulled taut. She should have met Everan Nayhills that day- but she'd claimed she couldn't, and instead she was wasting her time in the bath, minutes spilling by like water trickling out of cupped hand desperately trying to contain them, rushing past grain by grain in an hour glass. She'd never noticed how little he appealed to her until the idea of him was shaken into scrutiny by Jaime Lannister ordering the death of all those who'd been with the Quiet Wolf- she shouldn't have started putting her own potential future as Lyarra Nayhills into question, she really should not have, for now that it was put into the harsh white lights of her uncertainty being taunted by a spoiled-sounding dissatisfaction, it seemed so very unlikely she'd be able to stand him for long. A sennight ago she'd looked forwards to meeting the man, and now she looked back on it and wondered how she'd gotten herself wrapped up in a frivolous little dream she'd almost sentenced herself to. Why would anybody want to kill Jory Cassel, him and all the others. She didn't know, it seemed very few knew what was going on even though all claimed they knew exactly what had happened and why, when, where and how-

But Tyrion had been mentioned. That much she was certain of. Tyrion and Lady Catelyn, as well as an alleged abduction and Bran being much better and a long travel. 

Not knowing gnawed holes of frustration through her. 

She sighed. It had only been two days. And the first she'd spent half the time unaware, drifting in the gardens or in the library without more care than for a passing observation- whether that be the petals of an amaryllis or a sneaking passage waiting to snag her attention and refuse to hand it back until she'd read the lines five times over, it mattered not. She'd been reading in a courtyard beneath the gentle caress of the late afternoon sun, and Ned had been off gods knew where with his men. 

The steam rose and twirled like faded smoke from a freshly blown out wax candle. She wished she could draw, wished it with a jealous and detached shade of longing. Catching the little things in life had always been the hardest: they shied and danced, tiptoed and whispered around her, brushing against her fingertips and always just out of reach. 

Then her attention saw snagged by the little cupboard next to the tub, through which she could glimpse the colors of the flasks since the wood was filled with decoratively patterned holes. She reached out, nimble fingers working the drawer open and fishing out the first little bottle, a rounded orange thing. She  unscrewed the little cork and sniffed, only to be assaulted by the sticking smell of jessamine and bergamot. She placed it back, right arm slowly cooling as she, mildly curious, picked the next one. It was a murky violet bottle, and when uncorked it took a few careful sniffs before deciding it was a sort of grape and plum mix reminding her of highly alcoholic drinks oversweetened with rich fruits. Then there was a pale coral once reminding her of the rays the sun was blushing the heavens with, the cork already smelling so strongly of peach and raspberry she needn't make more effort. It disappeared back into the little drawer with the others. Then there was the dull yellow cube filled with vanilla-chamomile scents, followed by one containing something vaguely rosy making her nauseous, then one she couldn't distinguish but imagined it came from a very warm and wet place, and suddenly she was hit with a smell she had not expected, though she could not say if there had been any expectations upon her mind to begin with. The smell of pine drifted up from the dark green little flask, overpowered, granted, but most certainly there, and Lyarra Snow did not need to think twice before letting a few drops of the whitish oils splatter into the water, dispersing and fading like a childhood dream, leaving only the smell of it behind to curl upwards with the dancing tendrils and slivers of steam.

.

"Is the Iron Throne very uncomfortable?" Lyarra asked one evening, a little purse filled with a book about the evolution of fashion over the last fifty years as well as two about battle tactics and strategic maneuvering weighing against her calf beneath her chair. She was rather certain one of them wasn't meant to be taken away from the library on a whim, but it hadn't stopped her. Sansa and Jeyne looked up as well, trying to look disapproving but forgetting about their quest in a matter of heartbeats as their own harmless curiosity shone through. Arya sat up straight, darkly lashed eyes alight. 

"It looks wicked," was her input, a few dark hairs tickling in front of her alert gaze, "is it true all the swords are the ones of defeated enemies?" 

Ned, looking more worn by the day, looked up, taking a moment to finish his bite before answering Arya more than Sansa, as evident in his phrasing: "Yes, to both questions. It's a single slab of iron to sit on, quite uncomfortable, and all the blades make it impossible to lean any direction without getting cut- Aegon the Conqueror had it forged that way in purpose, stating that rulers should not be allowed to relax whilst atop the throne." 

Lyarra had seen the Iron Throne, the brutal simplicity of the seat and the morbid amounts of swords sticking out of it, as though steel itself had decided to become a porcupine. Yet, when she thought of it she was unable to see a great throne, only an open jaw filled with teeth awaiting to consume whom would dare take it for granted. She almost feared it, though she knew she shouldn't, it was the people close or on it who wielded the power. Even if she had the inkling it was the Small Council doing most of the governing in the wake of Robert's indifference. 

"So the reason some of them are rusty is because they're so old?" Arya inquired curiously, forgetting all about the slow cooked piece of pheasant cooling rapidly, still pitched on her fork, the sweet potato left on her plate as that was the least favorite part of the dish- the sauce and mixed salad filled with roasted little nuts and exotic fruits and vegetables mixed with a form of salsa having been devoured first although she usually preferred meat above greeens. "Wouldn't it have been better to take better care of them? Syrio Forel says the blade is only ever as good as the wielder, but if you sit on rusty swords, I'd say it doesn't give the best impression." 

Sansa rolled her lovely sapphire eyes at that, a small movement only, not very ladylike though the term ladylike did not always fit correctly when it came to the two sisters' interaction- no matter how much Sansa, more beautiful by the day, seemed to wish there was never even a hint of a falter in her behavior. The eldest trueborn said: "Is it not the point of the corrosion? Symbolically, because they lost." 

"Not everything has a deeper symbolic meaning," Arya answered, then took a moment to ponder, "though using the blades of defeated enemies might be, the rust doesn't have any little a-allegory!" 

"Yes it does," Sansa fired, delicately placing her cutlery down and deciding to argue for the sake of not letting her younger sister have the last word. "It must have been accounted for- these were real knights, Arya, they knew what they were doing." 

"It would've been the blacksmiths making the throne, though, _wouldn't it_?" 

"That- is not the point!" Little pale-rosy flowers were suffusing her porcelain cheeks. Jayne's cedar brown eyes flickered between the two sisters, clearly on Sansa's side but unable to intervene. Lyarra found herself, if only for a moment, in the embrace of that familiar feeling of fond exasperation- this wouldn't change. It couldn't. And if it did- then most likely for the better. "This is like the time you said there was no use in brocading!" 

"Well, there is none!" Arya was quick to answer. Ned started eating again at his end of the table, slow and silent and metodious, and when the Snow glanced at him, the beginning of a smile ghosting across pale pink lips, thinking this would perhaps be one of the moment when their eyes would meet and they'd both think the same thing, she had to swallow. He looked so very tired. The creases around eyes and mouth had deepened, webbing across his features like cracks and it was as though one more problem would make him fracture, rip at the seams and drift away. But then their eyes did meet, his gray pools still as steady and honest as always, filled with the same indestructible, stubborn willfulness she recognized and admired. No, Eddard Stark would never break, least of all because he looked more haggard than normal. 

It was a placating notion she wrapped around herself like the thickest, wooliest of winter cloaks from Winterfell's storages. Her hair still smelled faintly of pine. She wondered what Robb was doing at the moment, how Rickon and Bran were, how much better the middle brother was, if Theon was doing fine. Robb must've had so very much on his mind of late, as fate seemed to will it that way for all- but him above all. He was only four-and-ten yet was the one being addressed as Lord Stark in Ned's absence from the North. It struck her like a chiding swat that she, too, was only four-and-ten. _Already_ four-and-ten. Lyarra Nayhills did sound so much better than Lyarra Snow, but however unexplainable it was to her, she did not feel even a shred of longing to meet the initially endearing merchant. And she did not search for even a sliver of the feeling. Despite of the luxurious housing and aplenty opportunities passing by on platters for the picking, despite the prospect of perhaps marrying into the travel branch, she did not want to stay in King's Landing. 

And that bothered her the most. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter was okay. Sometimes it felt as though I moved too fast and at other occasions it all felt far too slow, especially the tourney.... but next chapter the tragedy should start: I'll sure miss Ned, he's one of my favorite characters....
> 
> Also, I know Lyarra was rather unimpressive in this chapter, but as mentioned before, it won't last, it's because she can't handle not knowing anything very well.


End file.
